


Watershed

by HalcyonStars



Series: Soulmate AU's [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: ABO without porn, Alpha Castiel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, M/M, Omega Dean, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, True Mates, no sexytimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 22:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4497849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalcyonStars/pseuds/HalcyonStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>True Mate, Soul Mate, the two words are basically interchangeable.</p><p>So why does Dean have a different person for each?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watershed

**Author's Note:**

> This is standalone, each part in the series is completely unrelated so no need to read the other ones to understand this one.

Two boys run through the heavy canopy of overhanging trees, a perilous rain of splinters and pines falling down as the weather chases them through the woods. Leaves rustle where they hit each other, sent from their branches by the storming winds. Against the tempest breeze the lake ripples, angry that it’s being disturbed by its elemental counterpart. Up above, the clouds release a downpour of water to meet the lake, a peace offering. The lake swallows the gift in acceptance.

The two boys keep running.

The taller of the two boys holds the shorter ones hand, his long and lanky legs carrying them towards the clearing.

Dean looks up at the sky, and frowns.

“Hurry up!” The shorter boy yells over the howling winds. “We’re going to get wet!”

It’s not the worst storm Kansas has ever seen – far from it – but they’d rather not try their luck in the merciless weather. Nor would they like to try their parent’s tempers.

“Shit.” The other boy swears, damning the weather and his own stupidity for being caught in it. “Why did we think this was a good idea?” His eleven year old mind asks, seeking an answer he already knows.

This is the last time he’ll see his friend before he moves away, may be the last time he’ll see him ever. He may never see the blur of stark black hair running hurriedly in front of him for the rest of his days.

Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester are known for being inseparable best friends. Townsfolk wouldn’t see one without the other, Dean’s red bike always a companion to Castiel’s blue one, a primary set complete when little Sammy would venture alongside with his yellow bicycle.

And soon, the amalgamation of colours would be reduced to two, blue riding off down a long two-lane route and straight to Pontiac.

The two eleven year olds, infinite in their wisdom, weren’t going to let a measly little storm stop them from visiting their spot, the quiet and private lake buried deep in the heart of their boscage getaway. It was off the beaten track, through a maze of untameable trees and foliage fences, strayed far from the trodden path. About halfway into the woods, just past a large and lone boulder and a bloom of purple flowers that never seemed to die, the two would stop their tread and turn into the topiary. When the world would become too much for their growing minds, they would flee to the calming body, always awaiting, always loyal.

It would always be _their_ spot.

It would never leave, even as they burst free from the fuming ticket, their feet stomping a percussion that carried them home.

Their legs push them forward until grassy weeds bleed into concrete paths.  

A tan hand remains latched to a freckled one as a white picket gate bangs angrily over and over against the fence. A pine door swings open to reveal a halo of blonde hair blowing in the ferocious gusts. 

“Get inside boys!” Mary Winchester yells. Dean is happy that it’s his mom that is minding them, he knows Naomi Novak – his best friend’s mom – would not have been so kind in her scolds. Dean and Castiel run into the weatherboard homestead, the door closing in their path and isolating the storm.

Inside is much warmer. John Winchester sits by the fireplace where a flame flickers in its hearth, settled into a floral armchair with a newspaper in hand and glasses perched on his nose. Sammy is asleep on the couch, their dog Bones curled by his feet on the floor.

John peers above his black rimmed glasses, and raises one steady eyebrow. “What was the one condition we had to let you go out?”

“That we don’t stay out long.” Dean answers.

“And how long were you gone.”

Dean looks down at his watch, the hour hand pointing incriminatingly at the three. “Four hours, Sir.”

“Apologise to your mother, she was worried sick.” He says, sternly, but warmly.

“–Sorry, mom–”

“–Sorry, Mrs Winchester–” The two boys reply at the same time.

“That’s okay, sweetie. And Cas, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Mary?”

Castiel flushes and looks at his shoes like they’re the most fascinating things he’s ever seen. “Sorry, Mary.”

Mary looks pleased. “Castiel, your mom said there’s been a change of plans.” Cas’ head dashes up in hope. “You’ll be moving tomorrow. She’s waiting until the storm blows over. Michael will come get you when it’s time.” He drops his head again, last semblance of optimism snuffed out by the revelation that he’ll still be leaving.

Dean leads the two boys upstairs, each thud of foot on step rivalled by bellicose thunder that booms in the sky. It rattles the windows in their sills and sends tremors through rickety floorboards. As they stalk into Dean’s room, the door slamming shut is silenced by the storm outside. The two boys take their place on the faded-beryl plaid doona.

“It’s gonna suck when you’re gone.” Dean says, playing with the hem of his tartan over-shirt, his father’s absurdly oversized leather jacket brushing his knees. He likes to wear it, it smells of home and family. One day, he hopes he can fill its crevices and become a big, strong alpha, just like his dad.

“I know, but mom says this is an opportunity she can’t pass up.”

“Yeah, well your stupid mom should forget above her stupid work and think about what her kids want.”

“Dean,” Castiel berates, “Don’t call my mom stupid.”

“Well… she’s still mean.” Dean shoots back. Castiel doesn’t deny it. “I’m sorry. It’s just, you’re my best friend."

“I’ll miss you too.” Castiel says.

And that’s all she wrote.

They watch a flurry of wind and rain beat a chorus of taps onto the window, a gentle splash that collides and cascades down the glass at an agonizingly slow pace, at odds with the whirling cloudburst. They sit in silence to the howling and clash of water on the tiled roof, the patter on tin gutter.

They kick up sheets and bury themselves underneath them, their two tiny bodies huddling for warmth against the cold. They fall asleep to the sound of rain and to the knowledge that this will be the last time they sleep together again.

***

**_7 Years Later_ **

“Dean, sweetheart, are you okay?” Mary asks gently as she walks in to her son’s bedroom.

Dean grunts in response, gracelessly throwing off his sheets and sitting up. He holds up his hand against the sun beaming through his closed window, leaning forward slightly so that the wooden shutter obstructs its light. A shadowed strip acts as a temporary blindfold where it sits across his eyes.

Mary subtly scents room, smiling when the smell comes back diluted. “Your heat’s blown over.” She declares. She walks over and opens the window, letting fresh morning air in.

Dean drags his hand over his face, brushing his blonde hair off of his forehead where it’s currently plastered, locked down with sweat. With all the grace of his teenage self, he lifts his arm and whiffs his underarm. The omega cringes at the remnant stench of a seven day heat split through with only one shower. “I smell like ass.” He says.

Mary sighs from her place by the window. “Why don’t you shower while I tidy up in here.” It’s not a suggestion, but rather a tender order.

Dean looks around his bedroom, where sheets are thrown haphazardly off his bed and fake knots in various sizes lay strewn across the floor. He cares not for embarrassing himself while he’s in the middle of his heats, it’s afterwards that the humiliation hits. His cheeks flush a bright and brilliant red and he rubs at the back of his neck.

Mary walks up to her son and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Don’t worry, Dean. I’m an omega too. We all go through it.”

Dean groans. “Gross, mom. I don’t want to hear it.” He says before making his way to the bathroom.

He wastes no time in setting the water to a cool temperature, the phantom memory of fiery flushes burning at his skin even after his heat has subsided. He relishes in the delicate chill it sends through his bones, the way it rubs the grime and sweat from his body as he scrubs it away. He wipes at every cleft and plain of skin until he’s clean, no sign of a week spent in haze of want and desire. The seven days passed tick off his fourth ever heat, yet another one spent without the company of suppressants. _They can damage your body...A boy so young shouldn’t be putting himself at risk…It can make it harder to identify true mates if you come in contact with them –_ bullshit doctor drivel that seemed to ingrain in his parents mind more so than his own, Dean Winchester didn’t want a bar of it. Unfortunately, Dean had somewhat of a tendency to do just as his parents - particularly his father - said, and suppressants became a flight of fancy. The wish of skipping his heats and falling in line with a simple beta life flew away from him, up to join the castle in the air and the pie in the sky.

Okay, so it was possible he is being melodramatic on that front.

Point is, he had absolutely no chance at all. It was over, and the fat lady had sung a song that Dean hated the tune of.

He shuts off the taps and steps out of the glass box, wraps a towel around his slight hips and rubs sloppily at his freshly renewed spiked hair. He re-enters his room to find that the fragrance of crisp summer air and freshly cut grass has masked the honey-sweet smell of his slick. It’s raw and open rather than musty and overbearing on his sensitive nose. New sheets are in place and his inanimate helpers throughout the last week sit discretely in a box beneath his bed. He abandons his towel in favour of donning clothes.

His draw bumps against its slides as Dean pulls it from its place in the dresser. He halts when he spies a basic pair of black boxers. He’s about to grab them when he makes a last minute decision, instead burying his hand deep within the scabbard until he feels soft silk brush his skin. He pulls his hand out, smirks and raises his eyebrows once as he gives an appreciative glance to the pink satin panties. He slides them on, relishing in how sleek they feel drawing up the inside of his thighs.

Jeans and a shirt come next. He finishes off by putting on his dad’s leather jacket. Its orifices may not be filled by an alpha, but Dean has still grown to be a tall young man, broad shoulders and muscled arms.

It was quite a turn when he hit his first heat, everyone thought he’d be an alpha – his height and stature certainly pointed towards it. His mom had been supportive of course, bought him what he needed and brought him food when Dean was too disorientated to do so himself. Sammy had told him that he was still his big brother and he would always love him, but that he really stunk and that he’d see him in a week. John had just awkwardly clapped him on the shoulder and said “At least I can put off that awkward conversation for a couple years. It’s your mom’s problem now.” Mary had slapped him across the back of the head, but Dean was grateful; it could have been much worse, and his dad was being supportive in his own way.

“So, I have some big news I wanted to tell you.” Mary says as Dean walks downstairs to the sight of his mom in the kitchen. He smells cinnamon and apple and warm buttery crust.

“You made me pie? You shouldn’t have.” He says, walking up to her and bending over to place a happy kiss on the top of her head. He’d long since surpassed her height, was even rivalling John in that department. Speaking of which, “Where’s dad?” Pie alongside bacon sizzling on the stove should have equated to one John Winchester awaiting in a drooling daze. “And where’s Sammy?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She says before turning to face him directly.

“What’s happened? Are they okay?”

“Calm down, Dean. They’re fine. It’s just…”

“What?” Dean asks.

“Well, the Novak’s moved back to town. I offered them up to help with their stuff.” She says.

Dean stops short at her words. Castiel Novak, he remembers him as if he’d left yesterday. They’d stayed in touch for some time upon his departure and vowed that they would stay best friends no matter what. Unfortunately, distance had proved to be stronger than a pinky promise, and time had worn down what was a pledged unbreakable bond. Talking every day had become once a week had become once a month, until those months faded into years. The last time he’d heard that clarion voice he was fifteen and unpresented, and so was Castiel.

A lot had happened since then; Dean had hit his heat, his soul mark had blossomed on his skin, Cas had presumably discovered his secondary gender by now too. It had been seven years since the image of black hair getting into a silver car had been etched in his mind, seven years since his blue eyes looked at Dean, watching out the back window until he’d faded into the horizons line.

“You didn’t ask me to help?” Dean asks his mom, because it’s easier to focus on that than the fact that his best friend is back he didn’t think to tell Dean himself. “I’m just as strong as them.” He tries to fight the waver in his voice, but he didn’t think it was something his mom would do. Dean was just as strong as any alpha out there, if not stronger.

“Oh, Dean, it’s not like that.” And there’s so much sadness in her voice. “You know sometimes you’re prone to long heats, I just wasn’t sure yours would be over yet is all.” And that makes more sense, heats could be exhausting. “And sorry to break it to you, but _this,”_ she holds up a freshly baked pie, “is for the Novak’s. Not you.” Dean swears he hears his heart break a little.

Maybe Cas will let him have some.

He grabs the pie and trudges outside where he sees a giant moving truck, its corrugated back open with a sloped sliver ramp connecting it to the road. From the chasmal opening, John emerges with a large cardboard box in his arms. He scents the air and smiles. Dean wonders if it’s from the clean scent of his son or the sweet one of apple pie.

“Hey son, that for me?” He asks, nodding at the dessert.

“No can do old man.” Dean shouts. John grumbles.

Dean follows his dad’s path to the front door, his nerves beating on his chest in a desperate bid to break free. He stops at the doorway like it’s a physical barrier, an intangible force stopping him from entering. He shouldn’t be this nervous to see his best friend, but for some reason he can’t shake it.  

“Thank you, Mr Winchester.” Dean hears a deep voice say, familiar yet so different from the one his ears had long since heard.

“Seven years later and you still haven’t gotten it through your heard to call me John.” He sighs.

Dean reluctantly peers his head around the open door to see John putting down the box in the living room. The house is exactly as he remembers it, entrance with mushroom painted walls, brown and white staircase with the bannister the matching colours. The living room has intricate blue patterned wallpaper with a white couch, a comfort to the mess of black hair and toned body that lays on it. He must smell Dean or hear him, because Castiel takes that moment to open his eyes and look at Dean.

Once the auroral eyes lock onto Dean, the boy who owns them stands quickly, eyes widening and mouth dropping open.

“Dean.” He whispers in shock. Its not shock of being reunited with a childhood friend, nor is it how much they’ve both changed in that time; it’s the itching Dean feels on his back, like a prickling flame licking at his skin where his soul mark lays. He can feel it igniting, drawn to the boy who stands across from him – his _soulmate_.

The tricky thing about soul marks was that they didn’t manifest until a person presented. You could have met your soulmate and passed them by without a second thought, blissfully oblivious to the fact that you may never see them again, the person made for you gone without a trace, without a second thought. Just like Castiel had.

Dean’s hands tremble by his sides, feebly gripping the pie that threatens to fall. Castiel became an alpha.

“You’re back.” Dean murmurs, throat dry with shock. Cas just nods.

He looks so different than the last time Dean saw him. His hair is longer, the spikes adorning his head even messier than his memories paint them. His jaw is chiselled and he has sharply defined cheekbones, those years separated melting away his baby fat. He has grown into his whimsically huge royal eyes.

“That’s the last of it, boy.” The gruff voice pulls them from their stunned silence.

“Thank you, Mr. – John.” Castiel says.

John dusts off his hands and claps the stunned boy on his shoulder.

“Tell your brother I said goodbye.”

“You can tell him yourself.” Comes the reply from a fresh face. In walks Michael, Cas’ older brother and eldest Novak son. Like his younger brother, he has a head of black hair, yet where Cas’ is ruffled in a perpetual state of disarray, Michael’s is gelled down neatly, his eyes hued with green and grey to Cas’ blue.

If Dean thought he was being melodramatic before, then his level of theatricality would be deemed appropriate in this situation. Because this _can’t_ be happening.

'Oh God' Dean thinks the thoughts run through his head, but from the way heads turn in his direction he must have voiced them. He whimpers.Can’t be happening. Nope, no way. Castiel and Michael are staring at him, both stock-still and stunned. His heart pulls him in one direction, and his body in the other. Because _somehow,_ in spite of what is possible, this is happening.

Because fate wasn’t cruel enough as it was, because life has decided to bend him over, because Cas, his soulmate, stands next to Michael, his true mate.

They both stare at him, so full of want and expectance.

He just, can’t...

Dean doesn’t know what to do, so he runs. He drops the pie in a crumble of apple and abashment, and runs. He runs like a desperate man out the door and down the road, through a ticket of trees and branches beneath a blaring summer sky, as fast as his long, strong legs will carry him. This time, the storm is not up above, but is inside.

This time, he doesn’t run _with_ his friend, he runs _away_ from him.

***

“Boys, STOP!” Mary yells desperately, called next door by commotion. Castiel and Michael are wrestling on the floor, eyes devoured by red and sharp canines bared. Her pleas are drowned silent by the growls of the two Novak boys. “STOP!”

Castiel punches Michael in the nose, a spray of blood tainting the floor when his head snaps to the side. Michael, in retaliation, rolls on top of Castiel, landing a solid punch on the jaw before his weight is torn off. Castiel slumps his head back to the floor with a resounded thwack as John pulls Michael. His brother and fellow alpha gives a pitiful whine as the much taller, and stronger alpha pinches his ear.

“You’re acting like children!” John bellows, as Mary helps Cas up from the floor. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, brings it back to see a smear of red colour its surface.

He can feel his aggression lessening, his inner alpha calming, tells himself his brother is not a threat. He feels the red fade in his eyes and give way to blue, sees the same happen to his brother.

“Now, tell me what’s wrong.” John demands.

Castiel starts. “Dean’s my–”

“He’s mine!” Michael shouts.

“Hey, Hey! Stop acting like a knot head!” John tightens his grip on Michael.

“John.” Mary whispers, and Cas feels the soft tug of cotton as his shirt is pulled at his neck. He knows what she’s looking at, the clique of blue and green blooms that sprung on his back when he hit his first rut, lipped over muscled plains to form the silhouette of wings –his soul mark. He has no doubt she’s seen the same thing on her firstborn son’s back. He can feel the burn where it flares in a luminescent glow.        

“I’m going to go after him.” Cas declares, ignoring the menacing growl emitted by his brother.

“No.” Mary says, patting his tussled hair in comfort. “He needs to figure this out for himself.”

***

It’s three hours later when Dean returns home. The lake, as he remembers it, used to bring him so much comfort and piece, the tranquil waters rippling in the wind and offering serene company. Now, its equanimity seemed to be mocking him.

“You took your time.” Mary says from her place on the couch, sharp hearing picking up on Dean’s defeated scuffling as he drags his feet into the house. She closes a worn copy of _The Hobbit,_ a novel that brings back memories of sniffling young boy nestled under his mother’s arm when his best friend went away, her soft voice a lullaby that lulled him to sleep when nothing else would. She pats the couch next to her in a warm invitation for Dean to take the place; he accepts.

“Needed to be by myself for a bit.”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t come after you.” Her fingers card through his hair and softly scratch his scalp, and he can feel himself leaning into it.

Dean snorts in amusement. “You wouldn’t’ve been able to find me.”

“Maybe not when you were a boy, but you’re all grown now. It may have taken me a while, but I’m sure I could have scented you eventually.”

“Gee, thanks for reminding me.” Dean quips, because as unpresented children there was no lingering scent to trace Castiel’s and his own path to their secluded spot. But now, the saccharine smell of omega calls a siren’s song, a tangled boulevard anyone could trace if they put their mind and nose to it.

Should he return, he’ll have to make sure he doesn’t do it so close to his heat, lest he want to expose the private place. He may have not gone there in a long time, but that doesn’t diminish its sentimental value one iota.

“What do I do, mom?”

Mary sighs and brings his head to rest on his shoulders. Her fingers keep up with their movements. “I can’t decide that for you, sweetie. That’s for you to figure out.”

“How the hell does someone even end up with a soulmate who’s not even their true mate? It’s like being pregnant with twins and each kid having a different dad. It’s some fucking soap opera shit.”

Mary hums out a tender laugh. “True mates are like… biological imperative. They attract you because your body tells you they’re your perfect match physically. They’ll take care of you during your heats better than anyone else can. They’ll give you the healthiest pups possible. You’ll be happy with your true mate.”

Dean nods. “So how’s a soul mate different?”

“Your true mate it a perfect match, _physically, biologically._ Your soul mate is a perfect match in here.” Mary says, holding a gentle hand over her son’s heart.

“Why do I have to pick?”

“It doesn’t happen often. People’s true mates and soulmates usually coincide. Or they’ll never meet one or the other and they’re okay with that. But sometimes… sometimes you have to make a choice.”

“But what am I supposed to do? This is huge, and I haven’t seen either on them in _years._ How am I supposed to decide?”

Mary sighs, and continues to smoothly rub Dean’s shoulder, trying to ease the stress out of them. “I can’t make that decision for you, sweetheart. But I think, deep down, you know the answer.” She seems to think on something for a minute, halting her movements momentarily, before she resumes them. “You know, when I first met your father I was on a date with someone else.”

Dean looks surprised at her confession. She continues.

“His name was Don, he was an alpha. We were in his car when he tried to take it further. I didn’t want to.”

Dean whimpers in her arms and he knows he’s emitting the beginnings of distress in his scent. Dean is very well aware of how this type of story usually goes, especially for an omega.

“He tried to grab me,” she says, “he was so rough, I could feel the bruising beginning to bloom on my arms. Then the next thing I know, the door is being ripped open, and Don was pulled right off of me. And there was your dad, standing over him. He yelled at him, told Don if he ever saw him again he wouldn’t like what happened.”

“What happened next?” Dean asks, eager to hear the resolve of this story.

“Your father tried to punch Don. I told him not to, that Don didn’t deserve to be punched by him.”

“Are you kidding me? Why the hell not?!”

Mary chuckles. “So I could punch him instead.” Her lips smile fondly at the memory. “I broke his nose.”

“Whoa mom, you never told me you were such a badass.”

Mary exhales in agreeance. “After Don ran off crying,” she pauses for Dean’s boisterous cackle, “I stopped to properly look at your dad, and I knew then and there. He was tall, handsome, smelled like oil and leather, and the first thing he did was ask me if I was alright. I thought my heart would jump out of my chest.” Mary pushes a particularly stubborn piece of blonde hair away from Dean’s face. “What do you think when you look at them?”

“Michael’s hot.” Dean says, then flushes brilliantly, cursing his quick tongue and its ability to outrun his brain. He secondly curses his heat-befuddled brain for even conjuring the words in the first place, calling it a traitor as if it was its own being. Whatever, it makes him feel better about himself.

“And Castiel?”

This time, Dean doesn’t sit on his answer, and he doesn’t cuss his mouth for speaking the words without hesitance. “Cas is beautiful.”

Mary smiles. “Listen to your heart, Dean, and you’ll make the right choice.” She stands, brushing fleece and hassle from her pants as she does. “Take your time deciding, but not too long. Don’t keep those boys on edge any longer than you have to.”

Well that’s a comfort if Dean ever heard one. He nods anyway, grabbing her hand to stop her before she leaves. He still has one question sitting on his mind.

“Is that why dad says to never trust someone named Don?”

***

It’s a day later when he doesn’t catch up with Cas, but the other way around, the blue-eyed alpha finding him hiding within the core of their sentimental memory. It’s very different from the last time they sat here together, the sky clearer and bluer, the clouds hidden away where they were last rolling with fury. Somewhere, perched high in the trees, birds sing, and Dean thinks he hates them a little bit. Why do they get to be so happy, chirping like they don’t have a worry in the world?

“If you look at it any harder it’s going to burst into flames.” Cas grunts as he sits down next to Dean. Side by side they are huddled on a large round root, the base of a giant tree, its thickness arching from the ground like a bridge, a perfect bench.

“I wish I was a bird.” Dean grumbles and is met with Castiel’s laugh.

“You hate flying.” He fires back. Cas remembers.  

“You know what I mean… carefree, no problems.” Dean bites his lip and scuffs his foot along the dirt, unearthing a worm as he kicks up the soil. A new idea sparks. “Maybe I’d wanna be a worm.”

“But then the birds would eat you.”

Dean sighs, and looks Cas in the eye for the first time since he got here. Under the yellow sun and the reflection of the green trees, his eyes shine blue as ever, defying the light around him.

“What should I be then, if I don’t wanna become a bird’s dinner?”

“I’d say a human would have fairly good odds.”

Dean scoffs. “You’re missing the point, Cas.”

“And what is the point?”

“Worms don’t have anything to worry about.”

Cas contemplates his answer. “They have to worry about getting eaten by birds.”

“Jeez, Cas, really?” He doesn’t get an answer in words, but the subtle quirk of upturned lips is answer enough. Dean shakes his head and laughs into his palm.

“You know,” Cas starts, “it doesn’t have to be so complicated.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one having to make the hard choices here.”

Cas hums, a deep sound that rivals the rumbling of thunder during a storm. For some reason Dean finds it warm and comforting, like a safety blanket. “True, but I’m the one that needs to live with your decision. Myself and my brother, that is.”

Dean groans. “Thanks for making this so much easier for me, asshole.” Cas laughs and drops his head on Dean’s shoulder. It speaks volumes to Dean that he doesn’t even hesitate to put his arm around Castiel, falling into a seven-year-old but never forgotten pattern. His scent is comforting, like cinnamon and nutmeg and goddamn apple pie on a Christmas morning and Dean wants to bury his nose in Cas’ hair. He isn’t even making this fair.

“You smell good too, Dean.” Cas says. “Like coriander and leather, and wood.” Its then that Dean realises that he actually _did_ bury his nose in Cas’ hair and wasn’t too subtle about it. He quickly pulls his nose away to the lingering aroma of Cas and to the same boys chuckle.

The sun shines in fragmented rays through the treetops, casting penumbra onto the rich soil in a broken shadow. Dean looks up to the unclouded sky and lets the sun warm his skin as he tightens his grip on Cas shoulder.

“Can I see it?” Dean asks, dropping his hand to lightly brush Castiel’s back, the spot where he _knows_ his mark is, the identical spot to his own. Dean traces its silhouette, along the blue-green blur that lays beneath his friend’s shirt.

Cas wastes no time in taking off his shirt, his golden skin even darker in the sun. Over the years his tubbiness has smelted away to lean muscle, so changed yet still the same with that cute little freckle that sits above his nipple. Dean points it out and playfully tickles Cas, revelling in the disgruntled grunt Cas gives him return.

“You’re one to talk about freckles, Dean.” Cas slowly trails his finger down the centre of Dean’s nose and over his cheeks, tracing the smatter of freckles he finds there. Dean closes his eyes and leans into the touch. “I could find a constellation in your freckles.” Cas places a delicate kiss over the scattered spots, and Dean swears he can feel the mark on his back flare in content. He opens his eyes to Cas’ azure ones, pressing on the alpha’s shoulder and urging him to turn.

Cas obliges, rotates in his spot so that his back is facing Dean. Dean stutters out a breath when he sees Cas’ soul mark. Knowing it was there and seeing it are two completely different things, the newfound tangibility of it sparking a fervor deep in Dean’s gut. He traces over the profile of wings that stretch over Castiel’s back, over the toned ridges where a mix of green and blue blend like a watercolour painting, creating the harmonizing pattern Dean can feel tingle on his back at this moment. The mark illuminates under Dean’s touch, calling to its pair, its other half as it sits inches away from it. It glows like aqua fireflies against the dark of night, impossibly bright and beautiful against the already bright and beautiful day. Dean feels his omega call to Cas’ alpha, just as much as the other boy calls to him, at a complete equal, Brownian movement as they feed back and forth feelings of want and adoration.

Seven years and its only grown stronger.

“How do I break it to Michael?” Dean asks, and Cas turns around so quickly it’s bound to pull uncomfortably at his neck.

“Tell him what?”

“That he’ll have to find someone else.” Dean replies.

Cas smile is blinding, unbelievably white against the yellow-green light flooding the alcove. He dallies not a second before hugging Dean with all his strength.

“You don’t seem too worried about how you’re brother's going to take this.” Dean says, still enveloped in Cas strong arms. Cas huffs a quite laugh against Dean’s shoulder.

“We were never that close.”

Dean reluctantly pulls away when the warmth of the sun and body heat get to be too much, missing the comfort and contentment in his heart earnestly but thriving in the fact that he once again gets the full view of Cas shirtless. He expresses this aloud, along with how hot Cas looks.

“Don’t objectify me.” Cas pouts. Dean laughs.

He laces their hands together, his and Cas’, his Cas, his alpha, his soulmate.

Somewhere, far off the beaten track and buried deep in the heart of the dense of secluded woods, they sit. The heavy canopy of overhanging trees offers shade from the beaming sun, leaves rustle gently in the calm breeze, the lake ripples lightly. Up above, the clouds are nowhere to be seen, the sky unburdened and unbound, empty and yet filled with prospect.

The taller of the two boys holds the shorter ones hand, just like before, and yet different.

Dean looks up at the sky, and smiles.


End file.
